


The Art of Persuasion

by Limpet666



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Blood, Bloodplay, Enthusiastic Consent, Largely just an excuse for smut, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Injuries, NSFW, Oral Sex, Post-T/Pre-Surgery, Season 1 era, Trans!Oswald, gender identity is never an issue, injections/needles, self-harm/cutting, unsafe binding decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9483257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limpet666/pseuds/Limpet666
Summary: Oswald has his doubts that being confined to a Safe House with Victor Zsasz is going to be even remotely fun. He's never been so glad to be so wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: To reiterate the tags, I write trans!Oswald, and in this work he is Post-T (so he is taking testosterone injections) but PRE-Surgery.

“What are you doing?” Oswald spat up at the man that had just rescued him. As though he wasn't sprawled out on the ground, bloodied and bruised and more than a little worse for wear. His clothes were torn and his body battered, and yet he was still glaring up up at the man standing over him like he begrudged him being there.

 “Uh, saving you?” Zsasz's voice was blithe as he looked around at his handiwork. Which this time consisted of only four dead bodies.

 It had hardly even been interesting, let alone fair. 

 For them.

 “I did not need your help!” Oswald struggled to get to his feet, wincing and huffing through the pain and humiliation. 

 “Don Falcone thought otherwise,” Zsasz stated, matter of fact as he watched the small man right himself. “He thought you might be in trouble when you didn't check in --” Oswald scowled at him, “-- so he sent me to come get you.”

 Tension had been high with Maroney and Falcone for the last few days, more so than usual. That they had taken Oswald off the streets to extract information (and exact revenge) had been unfortunate, but entirely predictable.

 To Falcone at least. Because Oswald was still smarting from the fact he had been taken completely by surprise. He had things to do, and getting a bag pulled over his head before being roughly shoved into the trunk of a car had not been part of his plan.

 “I had it entirely under control! I was --”

 “Don't care.” Zsasz cut him off with a bored voice. He was a man for hire, and his fee hadn't included listening to unnecessary excuses that would delay their exit.

 Before Oswald could form more words from his huffing and blustering, Zsasz continued.

 “Don Falcone has a safe house arranged for you, so let’s go.” And with that he turned and headed for the door, fulling expecting Oswald to follow.

 Which he did, of course, albeit bitterly, his face pinched with frustration and embarrassment, and his limp more pronounced from his recent beating. 

Oswald expected Zsasz to speed ahead of him; most people forgot how difficult he found walking, especially without his cane. But Zsasz maintained a brisk but manageable speed for Oswald, even with his new pains slowing him further. 

Victor Zsasz had a reputation, merciless and efficient, and not one for idle chit-chat that he didn’t instigate himself. Therefore they left the building in a tense, irritable silence.

Well, almost. 

“Where's your backup?” Oswald asked between panted breaths. Zsasz was usually flanked by at least three accomplices, all deadly in their own right. 

Zsasz stuck his head out the last door, checking they were clear, before replying.

“The girls hate babysitting duty,” he said in a voice that clearly said he didn't think much of it either. “All clear, let's go.”

Oswald was so insulted by the insinuation he could scarcely get his feet to move, let alone form a coherent word. But after couple of seconds inaction his body caught up to his brain and he marched after Zsasz with intent.

“I assure you,  _ sir _ , I do not need  _ babysitting.”  _ The venom in his voice, along with the fact that Oswald was more than capable of backing up any threats, would have stripped a lesser man of his courage. But Zsasz merely opened the passenger door of the shiny black car they would be travelling in and waited for Oswald to get in.

He didn't even act as though he'd heard the smaller man say anything, and Oswald bristled.

“Just take me to Don Falcone,” he demanded. “I'll tell  _ him _ I don't need a chaperone. This was just… an  _ unfortunate  _ event.”

Zsasz let out a sigh that was all boredom, and when he finally looked to Oswald it was pointed and thoughtful.

There was silence, and Oswald shifted impatiently as Zsasz consider him from toes to forehead, before --

“If I say yes, will you  **get in the car?** ”

Oswald breathed out a harsh breath, jaw jutting before he nodded, his voice impatient, “Yes!”

“Okay,” Zsasz gestured for him to get in the car, “I will take you to Don Falcone.”

The glare Oswald directed at the hitman was icy, but with as much dignity as he could manage he hobbled to the car and threw himself into the passenger seat. Once all his limbs were safely inside, the door was shut, and Zsasz stepped around to get behind the wheel without a word.

The car started up with a pleasant purr and Zsasz took them away from the warehouse and out onto the streets of Gotham at an unhurried pace.

It took Oswald perhaps 20 minutes to realise they were heading out of the city. 20 minutes where his various injuries settled in and began demanding attention, where every bump in the road caused a wince and a hiss, and his breathing got slowly but consistently more laboured.

“Where are we going?” Oswald snapped as the straight before them indicated they were indeed heading out of Gotham.

Zsasz didn’t respond immediately, clearly debating whether he had to or not, before eventually replying, “Safehouse.”

Oswald was livid, and it rang clear in his voice, “You  _ said _ you would take me to Falcone.” If he had any sort of weapon to and it would have been trained on Zsasz, driving or not.

“Yeah, I was only told to take you to the safehouse, so…” Was the unbothered reply, and Zsasz’s perpetually distant tone only aggravated Oswald further.

“You  _ will _ turn this car around, or I swear you will --” the sudden tension in his body caused an unpleasant jolt of pain from his ribs, and whatever threat Oswald had been about to levy was cut short.

For many minutes the only sound beside the low rumble of the engine was sharp panted breaths, and in the time it took to catch his breath, Oswald’s anger lessened. He was in a miserable state. Maybe some rest wouldn’t go amiss.

“How long do you expect me to stay out of Gotham?” He finally asked, voice quieter as he sank into the seat, half from petulance, half from exhaustion.

“A few days,” Zsasz deigned to reply, “Falcone wants to deal with this himself, without your interference.”

Normally such an insult would get a scathing reply, but after a prolonged silence a quick glance from Zsasz confirmed that Oswald had already drifted into an uneasy slumber.

 

\- - -

 

Oswald awoke to what felt like punch in the chest, but in actual fact was just the car coming to a sharp stop.

As he struggled to catch his breath and blink the disorientation from his eyes, Oswald peered out of the windows to see what appeared to be an abandoned factory. Further inspection revealed they were surrounded by trees, and it was almost dark.

They must have been driving for at least two hours, and the increased soreness from Oswald’s injuries concurred.

“Where --” 

The slam of the driver’s side door cut off the question, and Oswald hastened to undo his seat belt as he tried to work some life back into his limbs. The dark building before them looked eerie and ominous, and he did not relish the prospect of spending the next few days here.

Oswald started when his door was yanked open, and he found Zsasz staring down at him expectantly.

“Are you coming?” He asked, rhetorically one assumed, since he headed towards the building without waiting for Oswald to reply. He had a bag over each shoulder, and it was only then that Oswald realised the full reality of his situation.

At least two or three days here, beaten and bloody, with a man who was assumedly being paid for only two things; to make sure Oswald didn’t expire, and to make sure he stayed out of Gotham.

Anxieties rose in Oswald’s throat like bile, but he forced them down, digging his thumb into his twisted leg and focussing on the pain there. 

_ Only  _ the pain.

It was enough to blank his mind, keep him in the here and now, and with a lurch he stood from the car and slowly followed after his ‘guardian’.

His pains made themselves well known as he followed Zsasz into the building, and he choked back a cough on the dust as a flashlight lit their way.

A flight of stairs proved difficult, and the second almost impossible, but eventually Oswald made it.

To his credit, Zsasz said nothing to hurry Oswald along, only waited at the top of each flight for his ward to catch up before continuing.

“Where are you taking me?” Oswald snapped, panting from pain.

“Safehouse,” Zsasz repeated for the third time since ‘rescuing’ Oswald, and seemed disinclined to explain further as he led the limping man down another dusty corridor. Their toes tapped on the cold concrete floor, and the sounds echoed against the brick walls back and forth.

“Yes, so you’ve said, but--” 

In what was becoming an irritating habit, Zsasz cut off Oswald’s comments by answering them with actions. 

Drawing a key from the inside of his jacket, Zsasz used it to unlock a nondescript door in the middle of a darkened, featureless corridor. He made no noise as he pushed open the door and gestured expectantly for Oswald to go on in.

A waft of heat billowed out from the room, and Oswald shivered at the warmth, and without meaning to he gravitated towards it.

He had expected a cold, empty room, sparse floors and no decoration. Maybe a mattress if he was lucky. What he found through the grey factory door was a fully furnished bedsit.

It was warm and cosy and pleasantly decorated to Don Falcone’s personal style (that Oswald happened to appreciate), and the only indication that it was anything more than a normal residence was the complete lack of windows. In fact, it was almost jarring to step from the dusty factory floor straight into a piece of rosey-hued urban living.

Perhaps the next few days wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The sound of multiple locks being fastened brought Oswald back to reality, and he spun to watch Zsasz slide across the last latch.

“So now what?” Oswald asked without pause as Zsasz brushed past him.

“Uh...don’t try to leave, and don’t die.” Matter of fact, and Zsasz walked out into the lounge area and across to one of the four doors set around. Opening it, he vanished inside for only a few second before emerging, sans one of his bags.

“That’s your room,” he stated, giving Oswald no say in the matter before crossing to another door. He didn’t even spare a glance back before disappearing into the room and shutting the door.

With the assassin finally out of sight, Oswald deflated a little. It was so much to take in all of a sudden, and he felt the itching tension rushing through his veins like electricity. It was a fearful anxiety he was unfortunately used to, and with practiced ease he allowing himself just 5 seconds of panicked, pained breathing. 

His panic was unfounded, he knew that. Falcone had safehoused him, he clearly valued him. And Zsasz, as irritating as he was, was the  _ best of the best _ ,and Oswald had no doubt he was as safe as could be.

But still, he had been kidnapped and beaten and presumably almost killed, and what if Don Falcone soon decided he wasn’t worth the effort. What if his leads dried up? What if his clever schemes exploded in his face?

Five seconds. He was allowed five seconds.

Five seconds of skin-crawling, tight-chested panic.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

A deep breathe marked the end of his time before an enforced calmness settled on him, and with a scowl he set his gaze ahead and limped to his room. He had torn clothes to change, and wounds to see to. Worrying about things wasn’t going to change anything.

The room was basic enough; a single bed, a set of shelves with some books, and a chest of drawers which Oswald would check later to see if they were empty, or if they contained any Falcone family clothes that he unequivocally would not touch.

On the bed was the bag Zsasz had left there, and Oswald opened it to find an assortment of basic clothes which were decidedly not his. It also contained a first aid kit, a couple of knives (Oswald was disappointed to see no gun) and blank notepad with some pens.

Acutely aware of his state, Oswald shut the door (harder than he probably needed to) before grabbing the first aid kit and starting to undress.

Most of his clothes were ripped or bloodied, and it was with relief that he stripped down to his underwear, despite the pain each movement caused him. He didn’t dare remove his binder, despite how he knew his ribs were bruised and possibly broken. He knew if he took it off he wouldn’t be able to get it back on, and he couldn’t face that with someone else there.

So he kept it on, despite the very real health risks it posed.

He used almost every medical wipe in the kit to clean the dried blood and grime off his skin, and used the adhesive stitches on the couple of cuts that warranted it. Everything else got an examination and mental stock take; the raw grazes got dressings, and the bruises prodded to make sure nothing was seriously damaged.

At the end of it, Oswald was relieved to report nothing felt more than superficial, and he sat down heavily on the soft bed with deep sigh.

It was going to be a long few days…

He uncapped a pill bottle and tipped a couple of the painkillers out onto his palm before reaching into the bag, wondering if there was a bottle of water in there so he wouldn’t have to leave his room to find a glass.

He was pleasantly surprised to find there was. And as he was rummaging his hand brushed against something else he hadn’t noticed on his first look.

Oswald took the tablets quickly before setting the water aside. Then he pulled from the bag a small leather case, just a little bigger than his hand.

He knew what it looked like, but it wasn’t until he opened it that his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Inside the case were three syringes and a vial of pharmaceutical grade testosterone. Just like the kind Oswald kept at home for his weekly shots. But this wasn’t his case, and the needles were a larger gauge than he prefered. So someone else had packed this for him.

Had Zsasz packed the bags? 

Oswald supposed that seemed the most likely. 

And he had been thoughtful enough to consider Oswald’s needs to this extent?

Maybe the next few days weren’t going to be so bad after all.

As it transpired, Oswald was due his shot. He would have been okay without it for a few days (not that he would have had a choice) but since he didn’t  _ need _ to…

He checked the concentration of the testosterone to make sure he knew the dosage then reached for one of the needles, wrinkling his nose at gauge. This was going to hurt more than he was used to.

And it was that though that made him pause and look down at his leg. His usual prefered injection site on his upper left leg was a mess of bruising and scratches, and Oswald let out a harsh sigh. It was completely unusable. And his right leg was out of the question; he couldn’t bear adding to the chronic pain he already suffered there.

Which left his glute. Which was fine, he did it there sometimes if his leg was sore, but it was at this time that his ribs reminded him that twisting like that was not something he was currently capable of.

So he had one of two options; he could forgo the shot for now, but they could be there for days, and the longer he left it the worse he would feel. Or he could ask for help.

He didn’t know Zsasz very well, and the idea of asking for help made his skin crawl. But it _ was  _ likely that Zsasz had packed the bag, and therefore knew Oswald would be taking a shot, and so asking for his assistance wouldn’t be something he would be surprised by. If Zsasz could even feel surprise.

Oswald eventually talked himself into it, and hastily dressed before he changed his mind.

The bag held only t-shirts and sweatpants, and both were at least one size too big. 

Oswald couldn’t help his flash of frustration. So Zsasz could put him together a case of hormones, but not a button-down shirt and pair of pants? Or just any clothes that would fit?

 Still, given little option, Oswald donned the clothes then headed out, leather case in hand.

Zsasz was already there, seated across the room on a couch which was angled slightly away from the door Oswald had exited. He gave no indication that he heard movement in the room, but nevertheless Oswald was certain he knew he was there.

 "I require your assis--” Oswald started as he approached the assassin, before he abruptly halted in surprise, eyes widening, _“What are you doing?”_

Zsasz had his shirt unbuttoned and shrugged off his left shoulder, revealing an expanse of pale skin. His right arm was pulled across his chest, and he appeared to be using a box-cutter to inflict a deep, inch-long cut into his skin. He was adding to two tally marks that looked older by maybe a day, and the skin around the cuts was already flushing pink from the new trauma.

“Uh…” Zsasz didn’t so much speak as just make a noise that indicated that the answer was clearly ‘what does it look like I’m doing?’. He didn’t stop his progress, and Oswald was hard pressed to draw his eyes away from the cut that was beading fast with blood.

“S-stop.” The command came abruptly as Zsasz was about to press the knife to his skin again, and the word finally drew the assassin’s attention. Dark eyes regarded Oswald expectantly, waiting for some explanation.

“Don’t tell me you’re squeamish?” Zsasz asked when Oswald found no words forthcoming. All he knew was that his heart was racing and his fingertips were tingling.

“No, that’s not--” That definitely wasn’t it. 

All he knew was that his heart was racing, and his fingertips were tingling, and his face felt flushed.

Then his demeanor abruptly changed when he met Zsasz’s eyes, icy blue burning with realised intent.

“May I?”

Apparently Zsasz could be surprised, because he leaned back a little when Oswald held out his hand expectantly for the blade.

There was a tense moment as Zsasz clearly considered every and all options, before his face settled into an interested smirk and he laid the blade in Oswald’s hand. 

“Alright.”

“How many?” Oswald asked as set the leather case on the coffee table before leaning over Zsasz, eyes on the pale skin of his shoulder and the bleeding cut there.

“Three more,” Zsasz replied, holding up three fingers to illustrate. 

Oswald inhaled deeply before laying the metal to flesh, lining it up neatly with the previous cut before drawing the blade deep through Zsasz’s skin. 

The breath that Zsasz drew in was more telling than any groan or hiss, and Oswald’s body trembled with excitement as blood immediately welled in the cut. It was small but deep, and the thrill of it was unlike anything Oswald had experienced.

“Aren’t these usually on your arms?” Oswald asked, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, as he leaned back, resisting the urge to dive back in and cut him again.

Zsasz reached across his body to push his shirt sleeves up, revealing arms that were already red and scabbed and bloody in places. 

“It’s been a busy week,” he explained with a pleased, deadly grin, and Oswald felt the darkness in him responding.

After pulling his sleeves back down, Zsasz settled one of his hands onto Oswald’s hip and looked at him expectantly.

“Two more. Please.” The last was uttered with obnoxiously feigned politeness, and Oswald’s jaw jutted at the slight. Not to be out done, and tired of leaning over, Oswald climbed onto Zsasz’s lap before turning his eyes back to his shoulder.

The hands on his hips, and Zsasz’s entirely unfazed smirk told Oswald he wasn’t unwelcome. But, if anything that made him only more petulant.

The way Zsasz’s bodied tensed as Oswald drew the knife deep across the four cuts, deeper than was maybe necessary, sent a shiver of pleasure up Oswald’s spine. He shot a glance at Zsasz’s face, only to find the the hitman had his eyes closed, his expression neutral. But it was clear he felt  _ something.  _ Which before then Oswald wouldn’t have been able to call one way or another.

The completed tally was running with blood when Oswald looked back to it, and the sight of it was hypnotic. He knew he had one more cut to make, but there was something about the sight of the cuts -- cuts he had inflicted on a willing person -- that were mesmerising. It was personal and intimate and real.

Oswald didn’t realise he was going to do it until he had already moved, lips pressing to the bleeding wound with possessive pressure, his free hand curling tight on Zsasz’s other shoulder. 

The reaction from the hitman was the most extreme thus far; an actual jolt of surprise from where he’d been expecting the bite of steel and instead received a soft mouth pressing a firm kiss to abused skin.

But Zsasz didn’t push him off, and instead indicated his pleasure with the action by sliding a hand up under Oswald’s t-shirt and resting his warm palm against his back.

When Oswald pulled back his mouth and chin were marked with blood, and there was something  _ good _ about the warm wetness on his skin. He made no attempt to wipe it off as he met Zsasz’s eyes, their conversation silent as his tongue darted out to taste the coppery stain.

It was both a dare and an invitation.

A sudden hand under his jaw was the only warning Oswald got before Zsasz’s mouth was on his, hard and insistent. 

The kiss was fierce, and the taste of blood was in both their mouths as they pressed together with demanding pressure. Zsasz held him tight by the hand on his neck, and the fingers of Oswald’s free hand dug deep into the muscle of Zsasz’s other shoulder.

It was hard, and feral, and  _ exhilarating. _

But all too soon Oswald was short of breath and losing focus, and Zsasz abruptly pulled away. He kept the smaller man’s jaw in a firm grip for many seconds longer, and Oswald panted as they studied each other. The blood was now staining all around both their mouths, and there was a heat in the air.

A heat which made the next question, and Zsasz’s completely normal tone, quite jarring.

“Why did you come out here, again?” he asked, hand lowering from Oswald’s neck.

Oswald stared at him, mouth working as he tried to form a coherent thought. It took a few long moments before he finally remembered just  _ why _ he had come out to see Zsasz in the first place.

“I--” he started weakly, then paused, cleared his throat, and tried again.

“I require your assistance.”

“Do you?” the words were punctuated with a pointed scan of Oswald’s body, and Oswald leaned back when he realised how close they still were. He sheathed the blade before setting it down on the seat next to them.

“Yes.” He climbed off Zsasz’s lap stiffly, masking his wince with practiced ease, and trying to pretend he didn't notice how the assassin's hands on his hips helped more than hindered. 

“With this,” Oswald picked up the leather case that was sitting on the coffee table. “I need... I don't have the option of… I--”

“It’s okay, Oswald,” Zsasz interrupted, voice blunt. He was looking up at Oswald with an expression of understanding impatience, and after a moment held out his hand for the case.

Slowly Oswald handed it over, frustrated with his own fluster. 

“It is?”

Zsasz opened the case and lay the two sides on the seat beside himself.

“One of my girls takes E-shots,” he stated matter of fact, laying out a sealed syringe and the vial of hormones. “Same principle, right?”

Oswald could only nod, the surprise clear on his face as he took the sealed antiseptic wipe from Zsasz. There was so much about Zsasz that he hadn't expected.

“What's your dose?”

Part of Oswald had expected Zsasz to already know, he seemed to know everything else, but he told him without pause. He watched Zsasz fill the syringe to the correct measurement with practiced ease, a shiver passing through him as Zsasz cleared the air from the needle.

“Turn around,” Zsasz told him, something not quite completely professional about his voice with that request, but he took the opened wipe from Oswald’s hand without further comment. Oswald supposed stabbing people with things was within Zsasz’ area of interest, so it was no wonder he seemed enthused by the prospect.

Usually the implement was much bigger, of course.

Oswald eyed the thicker needle as Zsasz uncapped it, before he turned on the spot with a steadying breath. He tried to reach back to pull his clothing down out of the way, but after the first hissed exhale of pain Zsasz pushed his hand away and did it himself.

With a completely professional touch, Zsasz pulled Oswald’s pants and underwear down only as much as he needed to get it to stay in place. Zsasz wiped the area with the cool antiseptic wipe then set it aside before placing a warm hand under Oswald’s tee on the small of his back. It was a surprise that sent a thrill of distraction through him.

“Okay, don't flinch,” Zsasz told him.

Oswald had a second to prepare before he felt the sharp sting of the needle, the piercing pain more acute than he was used to. He must have given some indication of his discomfort, because Zsasz hushed him gently, and Oswald felt his thumb stroking across the skin of his back.

Was he this gentle with his girls?

The shot was quick, and despite the pain, a thrill of relief went through Oswald to have it done.

He felt more than saw Zsasz lean past him to put the used and recapped needle on the coffee table before the hand on Oswald’s back slid around to his front.

“Okay?” Zsasz's voice was close behind him.

“Thank you,” Oswald said quietly, following where Zsasz’s hand was moving under his shirt before being surprised when a warm mouth was pressed to the still-stinging injection site.

Firm hands traveled over Oswald’s stomach and flanks, running over the scratches and bruises with intent and drawing hisses and gasps from the smaller man.

 Then Zsasz’s fingertips encountered the lower edge of Oswald’s binder and stopped.

 “You know your ribs wouldn't hurt so much if you took this off,” Zsasz spoke against Oswald’s skin, pushing up his tee-shirt to mouth against his back.

 Oswald huffed in annoyance, jaw jutting as he mind went through acrobatics weighing up the pros and cons.

 It wasn't good for his ribs to keep the binder on, but if he took it off odds were he wouldn’t be able to get it back on until his injuries had healed some.

 He had never been visibly without his binder in front of anyone but his mother, his doctor, and Fish Mooney. But Zsasz clearly had no issues with his body.

 Even if he was currently avoiding touching Oswald’s chest. But Oswald assumed that was because be was waiting for permission one way or the other.

Plus, if this was going to go any further, which Oswald was pretty sure he wanted from the way his body was tingling, doing it in a binder would definitely hamper his enjoyment.

“You're right,” he acquiesced, trying to mask the shiver of worry in his voice as his fingers found the edge of his shirt.

Oswald felt more than heard the pleased hum against his back as Zsasz’s hands moved to assist pushing up his tee-shirt until the smaller man pulled it off over his head and dropped it to the floor. He stood defiant against the chill of the room, refusing to shiver as he reached for the lower edge of his binder.

But the movement caused him pain, and even though he didn’t make a noise, his hesitation didn’t go unnoticed.

“Stop.” Zsasz sounded more exasperated than concerned, and Oswald stiffened when he suddenly got to his feet behind him. Right behind, pressed right up against him in fact, and many inches taller than him.

“Lift your arms,” he commanded, and the very tone nearly made Oswald refused. How dare he talk to him like that? Didn’t he know who he was? How valuable he was? How--?

“ _ Please.”  _ The entreaty wasn’t so much sincere as concessionary, but it was enough to settle Oswald’s indignation and allow him to slowly lift his arms over his head even as his nerve wilted.

Zsasz’s hands slid up Oswald’s sides before hooked under the binder’s edge and pulled it up and off in one steady movement. 

It was the best way to do it, both for the injuries and Oswald’s anxieties.

But once it was off, and Oswald got his first deep breath in what felt like forever, the feeling was euphoric. His ribs ached and shot with pain as they adjusted to the freedom, and his back and shoulders tingled in the cool air. But it was  _ good _ .

Until firm fingertips dug into the bruises on the side of Oswald’s ribs and brought him back to the present with a pained gasp.

“Vict--!” Oswald started in anger, but his admonishment was cut short when the hand that had been settled on his hip abruptly slid beneath his sweatpants and down between his legs.

Oswald nearly doubled over with gasp as a firm hand rubbed him through his underwear, and he was only stopped by the arm that crossed over his chest, pulling him back against the other man.

“Ah!” Oswald’s hand went to Zsasz wrist, but whether it was to stop or encourage him he wasn't sure, because the firm touch, coupled with short bites to the back of his neck, short circuited his thoughts.

There was a murmur against just neck, and it took Oswald a few seconds to realise Zsasz had spoken.

“Okay?”  Zsasz repeated, mouth at Oswald’s ear, hand slow but sure between his legs, drawing shivers and gasps of pleasure from the smaller man.

Oswald could only nod, head falling back against Zsasz’s shoulder as he fought to keep his legs steady as a firm touch teased him through the fabric of his underwear.

There was a series of movements that Oswald didn’t completely follow, but all of a sudden he found himself back in Zsasz’s lap. This time his back was to Zsasz’s chest, his legs caught on the outside of the other man’s and forced wide.

Any semblance of decorum was quickly leaving Oswald as Zsasz finally stopped teasing him and slid his hand beneath his boxers. 

Oswald was only half aware of the nose in his hair, the lips and teeth against the shell of his ear, as his whole body shuddered and sparked with the onslaught of sensation. Zsasz’s touch wasn’t light in the slightest, fingertips rubbing and pressing between Oswald’s legs whilst the other ran heavy and hard across his body, finding every bruise and sore spot without mercy.

The mix of pain and pleasure only brought Oswald towards his peak faster, surprised groans and heaving gasps escaping him as he writhed and arched on Zsasz’s lap.

“Vic-- ah! I--” Oswald could barely get his words out as the pleasure built, and although Zsasz made a curious, almost mocking, noise, he didn’t let up. Oswald was giving no indication he wanted to stop, so Zsasz worked him fast and hard until the smaller man suddenly tensed with a gasping shout.

His orgasm hit him like a cresting wave, pale cheeks flushing as his head pressed back into Zsasz’ shoulder.

Long fingers wrapped around Zsasz’s wrists in a vice grip and stopped his movement as Oswald arched and shuddered. Zsasz obliged and stilled his touch as Oswald’s startled moans faded to breathy hums, the shockwaves of pleasure reaching their crescendo before ebbing.

When Oswald finally released his hold on his wrists, Zsasz slid his hands up over Oswald’s body, avoiding any painful places this time, and pressed absent kisses to his shoulder. He moved his legs out from between Oswald’s, allowing the smaller man to pull his legs together, and waited for him to recover.

Which didn’t take too long.

Zsasz wrapped his arms around Oswald’s torso whilst the smaller man took deep inhales, mouth against his neck whilst Oswald’s fingers ran absently over the scars on his arms. But after a few minutes of nothing but the sound of heavy breathing, Oswald finally moved, gingerly getting to his feet on shaky legs. 

He was aware of strong hands on his hips, supporting him, guiding him as he turned and picked up the box cutter set aside on the couch.

“I believe you are short one?” Oswald commented, voice rough, clicking the blade out by two segments as he looked down at the pale assassin before him.

To his credit, Zsasz looked largely unaffected, save for the faint flush across his pale chest, and the obvious strain in his pants. But he didn’t reach for Oswald, or demand that he address his arousal, and instead just lifted his brow in interest.

“Yeah,” he agreed, dark eyes shifting from Oswald’s face to the blade, and back.

“I don’t suppose you  _ need _ it to be with the others?” Oswald asked, dropping to his knees between Zsasz’s legs and meeting his eyes with purpose.

Zsasz took a moment to respond, but eventually did, “I don’t suppose so…” His expression was more interested than cautious, and as Oswald pressed the blade into his abs his nose wrinkled, just briefly, in pain.

A small growl of discomfort escaped him as the blade was draw down through sensitive flesh, and Oswald’s eyes moved from the cut to Zsasz’s heated expression, drinking it in.

The cut, less than an inch long, bled immediately, and once finished Oswald pressed his mouth to it firmly. He felt Zsasz pressing up into the touch, strong grip threading into hair.

Oswald was quick to sheath the blade, setting it down far away before placing his hand over Zsasz’s groin, pressing down against the firm flesh he could feel. 

 Zsasz groaned in encouragement, and Oswald’s tongue ran out over his cut flesh before tilting his head to bite at his stomach, pinching the skin below the assassin’s navel.

 It was a thrill to get such a reaction Zsasz as he arched into the pain, fingers curling in Oswald’s hair tight enough to hurt. But Oswald wasn’t deterred by the discomfort.

Quick fingers made swift work of the fastenings to Zsasz’s pants before moving beneath, palming against his underwear with one hand whilst the other went back to dig his thumb against the fresh cut.

Zsasz didn’t make words, but his hisses and groans (and the insistent hand on his head) were enough to encourage Oswald to slip his hand beneath his boxers, freeing his erection from the fabric constraints.

“You don’t have to--”

Oswald cut the other man off by taking his arousal into his mouth without hesitation. Oswald was new to the practice, but it wasn’t exactly rocket science, and the way Zsasz’s head fell back with a groan was encouragement enough that he was doing just fine.

It didn’t take Oswald but a few seconds to find a short, comfortable rhythm, one hand on Zsasz’s leg for purchase, the other sliding up over his chest before raking down over the pale skin, nails leaving pink lines in their wake. 

He was rewarded with a growl and Zsasz’s fingers curling in his hair again. Oswald knew his scalp was going to hurt later from the abuse..

The addition of pain as he was pleasured had an exemplary effect on the assassin, amd Oswald used it to his advantage to get him off as quickly as he could. He dug his nails deep into Zsasz’ side, thumb pressing against the still-bleeding cut, and was rewarded with a hitched breath and Zsasz thrusting his hips against him. 

Jaw beginning to ache, Oswald upped his pace, tormenting Zsasz’s torso with scratches and bruising attention, and the other man responded favourably.

Zsasz gave him ample warning, and Oswald pulled back, hot mouth replaced with a firm hand and drawing his release from him fast and hard.

Under any other circumstance, the way Zsasz clutched painfully at Oswald’s hair would have been unforgivable. But given that the pale assassin was groaning through his orgasm, head pressed back against the sofa and muscles tensed as he released into the hand that still moved on him, Oswald said nothing about the way his head was pulled to an awkward angle.

Zsasz was quick to let go as soon as he relaxed anyway. Of his hair at least.

The hand that had pulled at his head slid down Oswald’s face to grip his jaw, pulling the smaller man up until they were face to face.

The kiss was warm and firm, Oswald opening his mouth with a soft gasp as Zsasz pulled him into his lap, hands sliding up from his hips over his back.

Oswald used the closeness to push Zsasz’s shirt off his shoulder, wiping his soiled hand on the fabric as the garment was shrugged off and tossed to the floor.

As soon as his arms were free of the shirt, Zsasz’s hands were back on Oswald, sliding up over his chest and raking down over his back. 

After a few moment’s Zsasz’s fingers dug again into the bruises on Oswald’s ribs, distracting him as he pulled back from the kiss with a whimpering gasp.

“I’m going to pick you up,” Zsasz told him abruptly, pulling back from the kiss whilst his hands slid down to Oswald’s hips. He gave him time to protest, but upon Oswald’s nod Zsasz stood from couch like the man he was carrying weighed nothing. His hands slid confidently to Oswald’s backside, one hand pressing up between his legs teasingly as he carried him in the direction of Zsasz’ room.

Oswald hummed in pleasure as he kissed the other man again, arms around his shoulders and tongue dipping into his welcoming mouth.

Zsasz allowed the kiss for many long seconds once they were inside the room, fingers grasping at Oswald’s ass hard and drawing muffled noises of pleasure from the smaller man.

But eventually the kiss was forcefully ended when Zsasz pressed Oswald down onto the mattress, mouth resting at the center of his chest and immediately sliding lower.

“Aah! Victor--” Oswald breathed in surprise, one hand slipping to curl in the bedsheets, the other resting on Zsasz’s head as he pressed firm, biting kisses to his stomach and hips.

“Yes?” Zsasz asked as he hooked his fingers into Oswald’s pants and underwear both. He was a man on a mission, and obviously wanted to waste no time getting to his goal.

In any other situation, Oswald would be nervous about being laid bare, but Zsasz had a way about him, a certainty, and it was all Oswald could do to gasp out a, “Yes!”

His pants and underwear were gone in an instant, discarded forgotten to the floor before Zsasz slid down between Oswald’s legs, hands pressed to his inner thighs and pushing them wide.

Oswald arched with a gasp as Zsasz ran his his tongue over him, mouth working him with merciless intent. His fingers curled against Zsasz’s scalp, but with nothing to grip onto, all he did was leave prominent scratches on the other man’s skin.

After many long, heated seconds, in which Oswald’s surprised moans settled into comfortable hums, Zsasz slid one hand from Oswald’s leg inwards. His fingertips pressed over Oswald’s wet opening, only to have the smaller man tense immediately.

“N-No… not there--”  

Zsasz moved his touch immediately before Oswald could say more, pressing harder with his mouth and shutting off any extended protest Oswald was going to say. His hand instead slipped lower, dipping between the cleft of the other man’s ass and rubbing there.

He got no protests at that, only encouraging moans, and the small spike of worry in Oswald’s mind was completely forgotten.

Oswald was intensely responsive to Zsasz’ mouth, his hands clutching at the bedsheets as he soon began to gasp and writhe. Soon he was moving so much Zsasz slid his arms up around the smaller man’s legs, using a firm hold to keep him still, effectively pinning his hips and leaving him at the mercy of Zsasz’s clever tongue.

The gasping keen of his name told Zsasz everything he needed to know about how much longer Oswald was going to last.

The way Oswald’s nails raked over his arm as he got closer to his peak only encouraged Zsasz, a low growl at the pain rumbling from his chest.

“Victor-- I--” Oswald was barely coherent, his back arching as his second climax rushed at him.

And Zsasz had no mercy as he very suddenly increased his pace and pressure, dragging a strangled shout from Oswald as the blinding wave of pleasure hit him.

Zsasz didn’t relent as the smaller man bucked and gasped against his hold, his moans gaining volume as the intense pleasure continued far past what he was expecting. Blunt nails clawed at the arms that held him, leaving red welts in their wake as wordless cries escaped him.

It was only when Oswald was reduced to pants and weak whines, his body tense but motionless, that Zsasz slowly eased off, before finally moving out from between his legs. Immediately Oswald half rolled onto his side, legs loosely pulled together. But that was a far as he was able to move.

They were wordless for a short while; Oswald completely incoherent, and Zsasz giving him the time he needed to recover.

After making sure Oswald was no worse for wear, Zsasz disappeared from the room for a few minutes. Presumably to the adjacent bathroom.

When he returned, Oswald hadn’t moved, and Zsasz leaned over to put a hand on his hair.

“You still in there?” He asked, and Oswald didn’t  _ have  _ to open his eyes to know he was smirking.

But it did confirm it.

Oswald tried to glare, and succeeded for all of 2 seconds before the incorrigible expression of the man before him was too infectious, and he smiled.

“I believe so,” his voice was rough to his own ears, and it surprised him how weak it was. How weak all of him was, for that matter. His body felt boneless, and sore all over, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Fortunately Zsasz seemed to happy to oblige, and after moving Oswald just a little (and like he weighed nothing), and discarding the rest of his clothes to the floor, he climbed into the bed next him, pulling the covers up.

He didn’t even question whether they would be sleeping together; this was Zsasz’s room after all. And Oswald found he certainly didn’t mind the company.

Especially when Zsasz curled against his back, tucking his knees behind Oswald’s and draping his arm over his side. The comfort was unexpected and pleasant.

But Oswald couldn’t sleep without first commenting; “That was…”  _ Amazing, incredible, indescribable. _

Zsasz breathed out a laugh into Oswald’s hair.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I do good work.

 

\---

 

“Ah, Victor. Come in.”

That was why Zsasz liked Don Falcone; he always sounded pleased to see him. And he was always polite. And he paid well.

“How can I help today, Boss?” Zsasz could be polite too. If people deserved it.

“I have an errand I need you to do for me” Falcone said pleasantly, stepping over to the decanters of expensive alcohol and pouring himself a glass.

Zsasz shoulders visibly slumped in disappointment. ‘Errand’ meant boring.

“I’m sorry, Victor,” Don Falcone laughed at the assassin’s expression, “but there really is no one else I trust for this.”

“Of course, Don Falcone.” Zsasz still looked like a petulant child, but he would do what was asked of him.

“It’s Oswald,” Falcone explained, sipping at his drink, “I’ve just received word that he’s been… shall we say detained, by some men on Maroney’s behalf.”

Zsasz perked up at the prospect of there being some people to kill, and Falcone chuckled when he noticed.

“I’ve decided, with everything going at the moment, the best thing for all of us would be if Oswald left the city for a few days. Until this current friction has eased.”

Zsasz could see where this was going.

“I want you to go pick him up, then take him to one of my safe houses just outside the city. It’s already been prepared, and both the addresses are in the car.”

“He’s not going to want to go, Boss,” Zsasz had met Oswald enough times to know the little Penguin liked to be right in the middle of things. He had a habit of sticking his beak into all the right places, and his knife into all the right people.

“I doubt Oswald will be in any condition to argue.” Falcone at least had the decency to look a little troubled that Oswald was probably getting the beating of his life whilst they stood there and talked.

“And if he insists on leaving?”

“Well, Victor, I’m relying on you to find a way to persuade him to stay.”


End file.
